The Taste of Smoke
by BattleCryBlue
Summary: Steve is a shell of himself after nearly a decade at war. He thought Tony would want nothing to do with him now, but Steve has been wrong about these things before... (Warnings: STony slash, AU, disability!fic. One-Shot in three parts. No Powers.)
1. Part One

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**The Taste of Smoke**

_BattleCryBlue_

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_Summary_: Steve is a shell of himself after nearly a decade at war. He thought Tony would want nothing to do with him now, but Steve has been wrong about these things before... (Warnings: STony slash, AU, disability!fic. One-Shot in three parts. No Powers.)

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**Part One**

**.**

"Go!"

Like a shot, the runners were off.

Steve watched them sprint by, all long strides and lean muscle. Blue and red shirts with white letters, they ate up the track. High school stars gunning for the same success in college. Some of them would make it. Some wouldn't.

Steve shifted on his good leg and suppressed a wince, shifting the head of his crutch further up underneath his right arm. He could be sitting down right now, but he didn't have the heart to. It was bad enough that he would never run again. And so he stood as best he could, ignoring the way his body ached and his spine cramped.

Steve looked down at his right leg, hating the way his jeans fell awkward and empty below his right knee. On his left foot: a clean, beat-up tennis shoe. Where his right tennis shoe should have been there was nothing but empty air. Empty memories. The war had taken his innocence, his youth, and his right leg above the knee. He still wasn't sure which loss had been more painful.

Cheers erupted at the finish line, jolting Steve back to the present. Peter again, smoking his own record on the 400 meter. That kid was going places. As always, the first place the sixteen year-old looked was towards Steve. Steve smiled his encouragement and lifted a fist in the air.

To the boys Steve coached, he was invincible, with one leg or two. He was their hero. He had no weakness.

They didn't know him very well.

Steve's assistant coach scribbled away at a clipboard, reset his stopwatch, and barked orders at the next relay to take their positions.

Steve was sitting back and letting Clint run practice today. It was a good trade-off. Clint needed to feel important, and Steve needed to rest. Not that he would ever admit it, because his pride still needed to keep itself intact. And the fact that on even the most mundane days, limping around a high school football field on a pair of aluminum crutches took the wind out of him was hard enough to swallow.

This was where he spent his days now. A basement office in the same school where he'd once dreamed, starry-eyed, of war and glory. Making a shelter out of an outdated track and rusty bleachers, watching the same dream he'd had fifteen years ago breeze by on strong, healthy legs. Defeated and damaged, he'd come crawling back.

The quick gust of early-autumn air that swept down out of the east caught him off-guard and he stumbled, gritting his teeth at the humiliation of tottering around like an invalid on metal and rubber and a single good leg.

All of his closest friends—the men he'd fought and bled with—had been ripped from him by the same blast that had stolen his leg. If they had been there to see him now... he could only imagine their laughter. As it was he'd been laid up in a desert hospital bed with a tube shoved down his throat, unconscious through their funerals. Closure was a luxury for the civilian world, his CO had told him once.

If that wasn't the goddamn truth.

"Steve," came the voice.

Steve hadn't heard anyone approaching, but these days his instincts weren't exactly what they used to be. He fell into his own head too often, too long, too deep. Sometimes he came back to reality to realize that someone had been calling his name or shaking him. This realization didn't disturb him like it used to. He wasn't sure why.

"Tony," Steve answered without turning around, feeling numb.

He should be surprised to hear that voice. He should be shocked. After all, he hadn't heard it in years.

Instead, he was numb. Because maybe he was dreaming, and he couldn't waste that kind of feeling on a dream.

The owner of the familiar voice came slowly into view, walking around Steve's left shoulder to stand in front of him, just looking at him.

Tony looked exactly as Steve remembered. And he remembered... everything. Four years of distance did not dull the memory of sharply tailored suits, a neatly trimmed goatee and eyes the color of chocolate. Four years did not blur the image of the way Tony had looked at him last time, all blinding smiles and adoring eyes.

Steve blinked at the apparition before him, and for the first time in months he felt... something. A twinge. An emotion, and he couldn't name it or understand it or catch it when it fled.

"It's been a long time," the words came out of Tony's lips.

"Yeah, it has," those words were Steve's.

Even behind dark sunglasses, Steve could feel it when Tony's eyes darted downwards for a millisecond, taking in the truth of a rumor he had obviously heard.

That Steve Rogers... invincible, strong Steve... was missing a part of himself. An incomplete shell of the man so many had admired. But then, that was a long time ago.

The soldier licked his lips and tasted smoke.

"It's true," Steve couldn't help saying mildly, shifting on his crutches. He felt a familiar self-consciousness pushing at the edges of his mind, a sharp anxiety that bordered on physical pain.

"Had to check," Tony shot back blithely, "can't believe everything you hear these days."

"You can believe this one," Steve returned, trading words for the sake of words.

The situation was already surreal. The words were just part of that, a thread in the tapestry. He was numb to it by now; he was numb to explaining it and wishing it away and shouldering those pitying stares. It no longer meant anything. He felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the wind.

Tony was silent a moment. Steve didn't look directly at the brunette, but he could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

Instead, Steve watched his kids. He watched their legs move in rhythm; he watched clean strides, perfect steps. Arms pumped and lungs took in oxygen in a way Steve would never know again.

He envied them. He hated them. He loved them with every last piece of his battered soul. He mourned for his own lost strength in the same breath that he cheered for their wholeness, their realness, their limitless potential. They were true and alive and vibrant, and he was so proud of them for that.

"I missed you," Tony said at last, in true Tony fashion.

The words hit Steve like a punch to the gut. He couldn't find the self-control to stop the shaky breath that left his lips. He hadn't expected that kind of honesty and he didn't even know why. It was just like Tony to be blunt and harsh and honest, and to hurt him with the kindest possible words.

At a loss for words, Steve looked down. He nodded, swallowing once, twice. "Yeah," he choked out, "me too."

"Why didn't you get in touch when you got back?" Tony questioned, and there was no accusation in the words. None at all. Just curiosity and something deeper.

That sharp burst of feeling returned with a vengeance, choking the words in Steve's throat. He battled it down, and blinked.

"Didn't have time," he lied. His right hand closed around the grip of his crutch, and he forced himself to relax it. He couldn't give too much away. He was easy enough to read. He didn't have the guts to say it out loud.

_I was broken and humiliated and nothing like the Steve you knew. I was afraid you wouldn't care. I was afraid you would care too much. I was scared that you would look at me the way everyone else did and god, that would kill me._

Tony had the grace not to call him on his bluff, nodding instead and casting an appraising glance at their surroundings. How the billionaire had tracked him down here, Steve couldn't even begin to imagine. After all these years. The biggest question was why.

"Do you have the time now?"

Steve stared firmly at the ground, battling with something ugly inside of himself. It was cruel, that fate would bring this man into and out of his life in such a way that it changed him, left him permanently altered to the point where he couldn't move on or even forget. And for that same cruel stroke of fate to bring him back here, back now, was almost too much to swallow.

"Steve," the voice was gentler, closer. Tony was so close to him, barely a step between them, his body turned so that the words fell only between them in a facsimile of privacy. "Talk to me."

Steve wanted to laugh, but that all-encompassing numbness, draped like a protecting blanket over the roiling sea of emotion inside him wouldn't allow it.

"Sorry," slipped out instead, and for the life of him he couldn't even have said what he was apologizing for.

A beat passed, and the wind blowing between their bodies smelled like Tony.

"I'm taking you to dinner tonight," the brunette said simply. Like only he could. Like a man who was so used to getting his way that he couldn't possibly conceive of rejection.

"Is that a question?" Steve forced a wry smile that he didn't feel, but he still couldn't bring himself to look up.

"Did it sound like one?" The way Tony tilted his head and looked down at him, searching out eyes that refused to meet his own, was all too familiar. It made Steve ache.

"I have to finish practice," Steve tried to protest, knowing he was simply going through the motions. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was already done for.

"Okay. So finish. My car is out front," the billionaire countered simply. "I'll be waiting when you're ready."

Tony paused then, like he wanted to say something else. Steve found himself holding his breath, unsure if he could take much more. His could feel his hands shaking. He hoped Tony wouldn't notice that, but doubted he was that lucky. Tony noticed everything.

Steve wanted to protest. Wanted to balk at the idea of Tony being anywhere near him while he was like this, distant and broken and damaged. Wanted to demand answers and find the ulterior motive that had to be lurking beneath the surface. He wanted to turn and run and hide from this.

But goddammit, this was _Tony_.

Steve could feel his skin growing clammy as his own mind worked itself into a frenzy, and by the time he had the courage to look up again it was to the sight of Tony's broad shoulders in an expensive suit, walking away from him like he owned the world.

**.**

Steve limped down into his office after practice, shuffled the last few pieces of paperwork into place, and took his time shutting down the outdated computer that sat on his desk. While he slumped into his creaking chair and waited for it, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded photograph, yellowed with age and smudged with the grime of the desert. It was folded neatly into four quarters, creased to the breaking point with wear. It was all in his head and he knew it, but sometimes Steve swore it still smelled like acrid dark smoke and settled dust.

Steve hesitated, glancing up at the almost-shut door to ensure he was alone, before slowly unfolding the familiar image.

It was a shot from the Brooklyn Veterans Society Awards Banquet. "December 2010" was written in hasty black ink on the once-white margin.

The shot had been taken by the event photographer and by some stroke of luck it had landed in Steve's hands several weeks later. It wasn't a very spectacular photo by any means. It showed a raised podium, the same one where a dozen other soldiers had received their various awards and accolades that same night. There stood Steve, trim and athletic in his dress uniform, hunter green and freshly pressed. There stood Tony, in a crisp charcoal-gray suit and red tie. Tony shook Steve's hand as he presented him with the Medal of Valor a mere two years into his military career.

It was the first time they'd ever met.

Steve stared down at his own face without recognition, marveling at the smooth skin and bright smile he'd possessed less than a decade ago. He didn't recognize that person. One deployment deep, feeling invincible up on that stage under the blinding lights of New York.

Tony on the other hand... the same contagious smile and wicked humor that had first charmed him that cold night in a crowded ballroom, surrounded by thousands of dazzling people... that Tony hadn't changed.

It was foolish and Steve knew it, carrying this thing around. The photo had been tucked into his vest through four long deployments, and it had kept him company through endless nights of boredom and longing, terror and pain. Somehow he'd never been able to bring himself to part with it.

It was the only thing that had been returned to him after his first surgery, intact but for a dark copper smudge of blood marring the edge.

He knew he'd reached for it when he thought he was dying. He knew he'd felt relief when he finally realized it was still there in his vest. Sure, he was short a leg and half his blood, but knowing that goddamn photograph was still there... He'd leaned his head back into the rubble and dust and let his eyes flutter shut with relief, the aftermath of that fatal explosion ringing loud in his ears.

Steve had been blinded by Tony from the first time he'd laid eyes on him. He couldn't even put his finger on it, but something about that smile had pulled the floor right out from underneath him and he had never fully recovered. To be fair, he'd never tried. While his fellow soldiers sat in the ruins of Baghdad and talked about the girls they'd loved and left behind, Steve was silent, his left hand deep under his vest, folded around a photograph he shouldn't be carrying.

Tony had swept him off his feet that night, and even though they couldn't possibly have been more different, something happened between them and it couldn't be explained. A renowned billionaire philanthropist cloaked in his playboy reputation, and a starry-eyed soldier high on youth and patriotism. They spent every possible moment together after that, either holed up in Steve's cramped apartment or tucked away in a luxury loft somewhere. It didn't seem to matter where they were. They craved one another.

And god help him it was _good_. Besides brief interludes with high school girlfriends, Steve had never experienced anything even close to a relationship. Calling what he and Tony had a relationship of any kind seemed like a stretch, but it was exactly what he needed. Worse still, it was everything he'd never known he wanted. It filled a hole inside him that had never been filled before, and once he'd tasted that kind of connection it consumed him entirely.

Steve's next deployment dropped out of the blue, and suddenly they had a few short hours to say their goodbyes before Steve was whisked away into the sky, destined for another desert warzone.

It was the first time Steve had ever had somebody back home to miss.

Tony knew Steve well enough to keep a low profile, but Steve knew the billionaire didn't forget about him. One week there arrived an unsigned postcard from Brooklyn, the next anonymous care packages that appeared at the most opportune moments. Even the occasional celebrity tours of the local military bases... generously sponsored by Stark Industries.

Steve didn't write Tony. Hell, he wouldn't even have known where to send anything. The man had half-a-dozen mailing addresses across New York City alone. But if he spent a little more time in the rec, scanning the satellite feed for the news back home... well, nobody had to be the wiser. Sometimes he got lucky and stumbled on an interview or a news segment on Stark Industries. Laid back on a cot, or bent over his knees close to the TV in the middle of the night, he watched Tony's face. Watched him light up talking about new developments in the weapons grade technology he supplied the military, watched him flash that cocky grin on the Tonight Show. Watched him sign a generous donation pledge for the Wounded Warrior project. Watched him smile.

2016, everything changed. He was no longer eagerly waiting for September, when his long flight would land at JFK and he could board his old motorcycle and call the man who had quickly come to mean the world to him.

Instead it was August and 120 degrees in the shade. He was a broken body lying in the rubble, clutching an old photograph and knowing that even if by some miracle he survived the night, nothing would ever be the same again.

He was right.

A light knock at the door startled him, and Steve had enough time to slide his keepsake sheepishly back into his jacket before Clint was pushing the door open, eyeing him with curiosity.

"All good, Cap?" The other man questioned.

"Yeah," Steve cleared his throat, nodding. He licked his dry lips and dispelled the lingering smoke. "Thanks for your help today."

Steve had met Barton in Ramadi. Steve infantry, Clint at the helm of an armored cav unit. Their units had worked shoulder to shoulder for months before going their separate ways. For that one small mercy, Steve would always be grateful. Clint left just in time. His was just one more funeral the soldier didn't have to miss.

These days Clint had the patience of a saint, and his old friend had made that all the more apparent over the past year. Taking in stride Steve's spotty attendance between physical therapy, VA appointments and general withdrawn behavior, he'd been quick to step up when he was needed and handle everything Steve simply couldn't at times. Steve was the head coach here in name alone. They both knew Clint was the real drive behind their ragtag team.

"There's a real nice car parked on the curb out front," Clint offered mildly, "got anything to do with your mysterious visitor?"

Steve's mouth felt dry. "Beats me," he lied poorly.

"Steve. For real. How you holdin' up?"

Steve only shook his head, words failing. He raised one trembling hand to rub at his aching temples, and found he couldn't answer.

"That great, huh?" Clint's voice was soft, barely louder than the soft hum of the old heaters cranking to life somewhere in the ceiling.

"I'm good," Steve choked out finally, knowing it didn't mean anything, "just been a long week."

"Take tomorrow off, coach," Clint's keys jingled in his hand. "Let me give you a ride home."

Steve nodded, grateful for the easy out but feeling more and more like a shitty person as he painfully levered himself to his feet. Clint had learned long ago not to offer to help him, and Steve had never been more grateful for that. He needed something to hold onto. Needed some last measure of pride now more than ever, when the fraying edges of his reality were starting to pull apart at the seams.

He'd thought he could do this. Thought that after almost a year laid up in a desert hospital, he could limp quietly back into his old life with his tail tucked between his legs. He thought that if he kept his head down, the past would vanish into dull memories and bittersweet dreams, and he could move on as a shattered shell of the man he had once been.

How wrong he had been.

"You parked out back?" Steve hardly dared to hope.

"Every day," Clint grinned. He picked Steve's duffel up off his desk without being asked, and held the door for his friend to shuffle out.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Steve locked his office door behind him. "Thanks, Barton."

"Always," Clint smiled.

Steve wasn't the best at conveying his gratefulness, but somehow Clint just knew. Falling back into familiar stride with him had been the easiest part of transitioning into civilian life by a mile.

As Steve threw his crutches in the back of Clint's pickup and hefted himself up by sheer upper body strength into the tall cab, he felt almost guilty for bailing like this. Taking the coward's way out. Sneaking away like a thief in the night while the one person he wanted most was waiting for him, just a few hundred yards away.

He watched the brick and mortar high school fade into the rear view mirror as they pulled away, and felt his heart sink.

If Tony hadn't hated him before, he sure as hell would now.

**.**

Clint dropped Steve off as close to the steps of his apartment building as he possibly could without hopping the curb, and even if it burned Steve's pride a bit he was still grateful that the other man jumped out to help him retrieve his crutches. Steve managed to stay in pretty good shape despite his newfound shortcomings, but the weight of the day and the shock of seeing Tony again had combined to leave him feeling sick and shaky. Accomplishing even the smallest things had become impossible hurdles, and he watched in thinly veiled envy as Clint deftly vaulted the bed of the truck and retrieved the hated crutches. He handed them off without comment, and Steve shoved them under his arms with a grunt of thanks.

"I'll shoot you a text tomorrow," Clint said through the window by way of goodbye.

Steve waved back half-heartedly and watched him pull safely away before engaging in the struggle of reaching down, heaving his duffel bag onto his shoulder, and rearranging his crutches. After returning to his new standard of semi-mobility, he'd originally opted for a backpack for ease of travel, but as with everything these days, every small choice was just trading off one struggle for another. Sure, he got around easier with two straps over his shoulders instead of one, but the humiliation of struggling to take a backpack on and off while balancing his crutches quickly became too much to manage.

He turned and began the laborious trek up the steps to the tall stone building that housed his apartment. The soldier silently thanked god for elevators as he made it inside, mashing the "up" button with his fist.

The doors chimed and he shuffled inside, knowing that someday he might need to make the switch to a place a little more... _user-friendly_. Someday. He couldn't even bear to think about it now. Thinking about it meant acknowledging that this, all of this, was really his life now.

When the doors slid softly open on the fourth floor, Steve found himself blinking up without warning into a pair of familiar chocolate eyes. His heart stuttered.

Tony smiled at him, and it was brilliant and beautiful and devoid of all judgement.

"Some things never change, I guess," Tony reached out without asking for permission and took the strap of Steve's bag, sliding it gently off his shoulder. "You've gotta work on your getaways kid."

"How did you find my address?" Steve wondered in defeat as he swung himself off the elevator, head spinning. He knew for a fact Tony had never been to his new apartment. He'd chosen not to renew his old lease after his third tour, knowing home for him at the time was a tent in the desert, not a high-rise in Brooklyn.

"Made a few phone calls," Tony provided vaguely, walking right up to the door of #4014 like he had his own damn key. "You know privacy is dead."

"Clearly," Steve fumbled for his keys.

Tony watched him like a hawk, unwavering. Steve was immensely grateful that he didn't try to help him. He didn't think his crumbling pride could take another hit.

He hated that Tony knew that.

Steve's headache was pounding in his skull as he awkwardly led the way into his small apartment. The floor was carefully bare, no rugs or clutter waiting to trip him up. He'd learned that lesson the hard way. More accurately, his chin meeting the countertop at 3 AM because he'd been foolish enough to let a towel slip to the floor in the bathroom had taught him that.

The air in the apartment was on the uncomfortable side of cool, and Steve felt his skin prickle as the chill hit him.

"Sorry..." he mumbled awkwardly, feeling along the wall for the light switch. "Cold..."

Without warning Tony intercepted his hand, reaching gently past him to flick on the hall light. Steve pulled his fingers back as if he'd been burned, feeling his breath hitch in his lungs.

Tony pretended not to notice, his shoulders so carefully relaxed, his face schooled into apathy. The fact that it was the first time the two men had touched in four years didn't seem to faze him.

Tony stepped past the stricken soldier into the living room, his hands in his pockets as he made a show of looking around.

"So when are you moving in?" Tony joked from the other room, his voice rolling towards Steve like a tide coming in.

Steve was still rooted in place, unmoving. Something about the whole scene was too unreal to process. Tony, casual and smiling, like the billionaire belonged here in this rickety hellhole. Tony, in his thousand dollar suit and his hands in his pockets. Tony, standing in his apartment like he'd never left Steve's side.

"I—I'm still settling in," Steve hedged with some difficulty, words refusing to form. It was the best he could manage because it had taken him months, and the truth was he still hadn't settled in. How do you settle into a new life when the old one had been torn from you without warning? In this new, bleak, unwelcoming world of _after_ there were no easy answers.

"If you didn't want to go for dinner all you had to do was say so," Tony was still rambling. "I ordered takeout. You still like that place up on 9th?"

Steve forced himself to swing his crutches forward, slowly joining Tony in the mostly empty living room. The space was bare aside from a single couch and a TV stand, littered with empty beer cans and the countless orange bottles of pain meds he hadn't had the foresight to hide.

"How did you get them to deliver all the way out here?" He asked hoarsely, trying desperately to mask how out of control he felt.

Tony grinned, rubbing his fingers together like he was holding money. "Easy. Just gotta speak their language, kid."

Steve's stomach turned at the familiar endearment. Tony didn't give him time to recover, striding into the small kitchen and pulling the refrigerator open without invitation.

"What's your poison?"

Steve could hear the bottles clinking together as Tony sifted through the contents of his fridge, which, to be fair, contained alcohol and little else.

Steve's throat had closed up and he couldn't have given a reply even if he'd wanted to. He had no idea what to say, what to do. His tenuous death-grip on his sorry excuse for a life was slipping.

Tony was in front of him, two bottles in one hand, prying one of his crutches away with the other.

"Sit," the older man's tone did not allow for argument.

Steve didn't have enough fight left in him to protest. He dropped heavily onto the couch, and the relief was almost crippling as he sank into the familiar cushions where he had spent every evening for the last year. His bones ached. His heart ached.

"When did you pick up a Corona habit?" Tony was doing all the work, pressing a cold bottle, already open, into the soldier's hand and taking his last remaining crutch from where it rested across his knees. "I knew you were cheap, but _damn_."

Steve watched in detached wonder as Tony deftly propped the crutches up against the wall, close enough that Steve could reach them if he needed to, and popped the lid off a second beer with practiced ease. Tony didn't drink beer. It was clear that he was making an exception now. The billionaire sat down, looking immensely out of place with a cheap beer in his hand, sitting on Steve's second-hand furniture in a dismal apartment. And yet he acted like he owned the place. Completely at ease.

"Do you wanna take your coat off?" Tony asked with unusual concern, and Steve realized he'd been staring blankly at the man for an unknown amount of time.

Steve's face flushed, his hand flying automatically to grip a vest he no longer wore, protecting the single remnant of home that used to be folded underneath. No vest. He realized his mistake a beat too soon and looked away, embarrassed, before shrugging out of his coat.

He hoped Tony had missed it. Tony never missed anything.

Tony took his beer away while Steve slid his long arms out of the sleeves, but said nothing, allowing the soldier to struggle before freeing himself of the garment. Steve laid it awkwardly across the arm of the couch, and within a moment the beer was back in his hand. Not knowing what else to do, he lifted it to his lips and took a long swig. He could feel Tony's eyes on him, knew the man was concerned and hiding it well.

Minutes passed. Fueled by nerves, the beer in Steve's bottle vanished and was quickly replaced by another. Tony sipped on his own politely. Steve couldn't help but be impressed that he hadn't complained once.

"Steve."

The soft-spoken word jerked Steve out of his head, back into the present with harsh clarity. Tony's hand was resting on the soldier's good knee, and it took everything in Steve's power not to push him away.

"You haven't said a word, kid," Tony was staring at him with unnerving concentration, "talk to me."

Steve's throat constricted painfully and for a terrifying heartbeat he thought he might actually cry. The sheer shock and humiliation crashing through his body like a tidal wave was almost enough to undo him.

"Why are you here, Tony," was what he finally managed to choke out.

Tony nodded like he'd expected the question, but didn't balk at the challenge. "I told you. I wanted to see you. Always thought maybe you'd come look me up eventually."

The statement invited an explanation Steve didn't have the strength to offer. Instead he scoffed incredulously, more bitterness leaking into the sound than he'd intended to betray.

"What, like this?" He gestured to himself in disgust, his beer bottle sloshing angrily. He knew it was uncalled for; it was too much. Tony didn't deserve it. But there was so much anger inside him now. So much hate. He didn't have the self-control to stop the words leaking from him like poison.

"Like what?" Tony challenged, unblinking. "Alive? Home?"

Steve ground his teeth together so hard he could feel pain spike up through his jaw. He shook his head in disgust and humiliation, and took a drink.

The soft chime of the doorbell interrupted the tension between them, and Steve's entire body relaxed as Tony stood up and went to the door. Soft words just outside of his range of hearing were exchanged, and then the brunette was back at his side carrying two hefty plastic bags, crisp white and red with Chinese lettering across the sides.

Without speaking, Tony dragged the TV cart closer to the couch, clearing away the bottles that cluttered the top. Steve looked away, ashamed.

In a matter of minutes a steaming Styrofoam tray of Kung Pao chicken and lo mein was in front of him, open and smelling like heaven. Tony jabbed a fork into Steve's noodles and set the tray on the blond's knees.

Steve stared down at the plate, awed into silence by the fact that Tony had remembered exactly what he used to eat, remembered exactly what corner dive they'd once ordered from on long lazy weekends. Remembered to ask for a fork because Steve had never mastered chopsticks.

The soldier's stomach growled in the silence, prompting him to give in to the expectant eyes watching his own.

Satisfied, Tony leaned back and snapped apart a pair of wooden chopsticks, digging into his rice bowl like the world had never stopped.

They ate in silence, and the tension thick between them abated for a merciful moment.

At some point Tony flicked on the small flat-screen mounted to the opposite wall, and they lost themselves in poor-quality Jeopardy reruns for what felt like days.

Steve was immeasurably grateful that Tony didn't push him further, didn't ask him to talk again or explain anything. The brunette seemed content for the moment to sit in one another's company and if Steve was being truthful, even that was almost more than he could bear.

Now four beers deep thanks to Tony's attentive eye and a well-stocked fridge, Steve was feeling the heaviness of intoxication pulling at his limbs. It was a blessing to finally dull the roaring of his own mind, if only slightly.

Tony rose occasionally, clearing away the leftovers—and there were plenty—and keeping both their drinks full. The billionaire had quickly given up the pretense of enjoying his beer and tossed it. It hadn't taken him five minutes in the tiny kitchen to locate the mostly-empty bottle of whiskey stowed behind the microwave in Steve's old hiding spot. The soldier was still a creature of habit all these years later. Tony seemed marginally happier with a glass of the brown alcohol in his glass, even if it was about two hundred dollars cheaper by the ounce than was his preference.

Steve was pleasantly buzzed to the point that when a phone chimed somewhere in the dim apartment, it took him too long to recognize it as his own. Tony finally picked Steve's cell up off the counter in the kitchen, where the brunette had been briefly engaged in another glass-filling mission.

"Med time," Tony read off the alarm like it wasn't the most humiliating part of Steve's day, "where do you keep the good stuff?"

Steve didn't have the sobriety to be as ashamed as he probably should have been.

"Bathroom," he monotoned instead, distantly wishing he could sink into the couch and disappear.

Tony turned off the alarm and set the phone back down where he'd found it, disappearing down the adjoining hallway.

Steve laid his head back against the couch and screwed his eyes shut tight. "Fuck..." he breathed out into the still air, the apartment dark now besides the steady glow of the television.

Tony returned with a yellow pill case marked neatly by day of the week, AM and PM. He deftly tipped out the "PM" half of Thursday's serving, pouring the half-dozen colorful pills into Steve's open palm. This time, Steve was just buzzed enough not to flinch at the contact. He stared down at the pills in his hand, knowing they were physical representations of everything that was still broken, inside his body and out. Opioids, muscle relaxers, beta-blockers, sleep meds... and Tony was watching him take them like candy.

Steve averted his eyes and moved to take a drink of his beer, more than used to washing the capsules down with alcohol. Tony gently caught his arm and replaced his drink with a fresh glass of water. Steve couldn't help the half-smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. The gesture seemed foolish given the amount of alcohol he'd already consumed that night, but he didn't argue.

The pills vanished with practiced ease. Steve's beer returned to his hand.

Why Tony was doing all of this was still a mystery. After Steve had disappeared for years, failed to call or even let the other man know he was still alive, pushed him away like they'd never meant a damn thing to each other... there was simply too much to be forgiven. Even worse, the fact that Tony had now found him again, at what was easily the lowest point in the soldier's life and was still here, taking care of him even...

It hurt too much. To lose Tony once had nearly destroyed him. Pushing him away had been a choice, taking the pain of separation over a pain he feared even more: Tony walking away from him. And walk away Tony surely would when he saw the weak shell of a creature to which Steve had been reduced. There was no other option. There couldn't possibly be.

Even if by some miracle Tony wouldn't have walked away on his own, Steve couldn't put him through the alternative. Dragging the other man down with him, into the spiral of pain and misery that had so abruptly become his life. He was not the same man he had been years ago, and there was no ignoring that fact. He wasn't the same man Tony had loved. He'd fallen so far, been brought so low.

The least he could do for Tony was fall alone.

Steve dared to turn his head enough to see Tony's face, to really look at him for the first time in almost half a decade. If Tony noticed, he didn't show it. His eyes were glued firmly to the television screen, appearing to be completely enthralled in whatever show was on now.

Steve's eyes sluggishly traced the lines of Tony's face, curves and edges with which he had once been so familiar. Tony was a blinding soul, the kind of man who could walk into any room and instantly capture the attention of everyone around him. Genius-level intelligence, sharp good looks, and immeasurable wealth had catapulted him to the top tier of society. Everyone knew his name; everyone wanted to speak to him, touch him, reach out and bask in the fallout of his presence.

None of that had pulled Steve in. Or maybe all of it had. He couldn't really have explained it. All he knew was that he had craved the way Tony would stare at him, intense brown eyes meeting blue, before flickering down to his lips for an instant and back up, a smile between them like a secret. The blond had fallen for a hand on the back of his arm, unnecessary physical contact conveying what words could not. He had been mesmerized by the way Tony accepted everything without question, didn't fight him on it when he re-enlisted, didn't ask for more than the soldier could give. Never asked for a name to put to their chaos. That Tony remembered his favorite restaurant and his favorite food and his goddamn fork of all things, and the way he didn't seem to know how much that actually meant to the soldier.

All those little, undefinable things were the things that had swept Steve off his feet. The things nobody else caught, the moments that slipped by unnoticed.

They all came rushing back, now. Details he'd locked away. Moments he'd sworn he would never think of again.

Steve watched the muscle move in Tony's jaw as his lips parted and he laughed, soundless. Who knew what the cause was, and it didn't matter. The expression was a beautiful pinprick of light in Steve's darkness and it tugged mercilessly at his shields, the same impenetrable walls he'd fought so hard to build.

Tony turned to look at him, caught him staring, and his face softened.

"Whatcha thinking, Cap?" It was a question Tony had once asked him often, and it slipped off his lips now like velvet.

Against his will, Steve's eyes flickered down to Tony's lips, and they were curled into a half-smile. He caught himself quickly and jerked his eyes back up, appalled. They weren't the same people they had been all those years ago, and he had no right to pretend they were. Even if this—the eating dinner, the casual company— was deceptively familiar. It just wasn't the same. He had no right to Tony, not anymore.

More importantly, he was no longer worth Tony. If he ever had been.

"I—" Steve's breath hitched and whatever he'd been about to say deserted him.

Tony's eyes were knowing and warm, and everything Steve needed. The soldier drifted, his mind floating in confusion and need. He felt frozen in time, as if it would take nothing less than an act of god to start the world turning again.

Tony shifted slowly, his eyes glued to Steve's blue ones, and lifted himself from where he was sitting a respectful distance away. The moment floated between them, caught in time, and Steve knew he could change it if he wanted to.

He didn't.

In a heartbeat the billionaire was in Steve's space, one strong hand wrapping around the back of the soldier's neck.

Before Steve could blink, Tony leaned down and kissed him.

The touch was a rush of fire through his frozen veins. Steve gasped involuntarily, and Tony deepened the kiss like it was an invitation. His lips were warm and so damn familiar, passionate rather than demanding. Steve might as well have been a ship on a storm-tossed sea, spinning wildly inside his own head. He could only grip Tony's arms and try to ground himself, and before he knew it he was kissing him back. He could taste whiskey and pure need. Something inside of him broke.

He kissed Tony back.

When the billionaire finally pulled away it seemed to take a great act of willpower, his thumb moving in gentle circles against Steve's neck like he was calming a skittish animal. Their lips parted. Tony dipped in to press another chaste, close-lipped kiss on Steve's before fully drawing away.

There was silence between them, full of meaning and heavy breaths.

"We'll talk tomorrow," Tony promised, his voice low and husky with emotion, "you need to get some sleep."

Steve must have been a little more intoxicated than he'd thought, because it took him a moment to process those words. Or maybe his head was still spinning from that kiss, a touch that had been real only in dreams before now.

"I don't need to sleep," Steve lied sluggishly, knowing that the light trembling of his limbs had already given him away, that Tony couldn't have possibly missed it. Even his medication wasn't enough to take the edge off the shakes at this hour of the night. Alcohol certainly helped.

"Sure kid," Tony grinned, "come on."

Within a breath Tony was hefting him up off the couch like he didn't weigh anything, and sure maybe he'd slimmed down quite a bit since his injury, but Steve still wasn't used to it. They'd been equals once, he and Tony. The gentle hands that held him now like a stiff breeze could blow him away reminded him with biting clarity that this was no longer the case.

Tony supplied a single aluminum crutch, guiding it into the soldier's shaking fingers with infinite patience. Steve waited for the second crutch, but instead Tony lifted Steve's arm over his shoulder and took its place. One hand flat on the soldier's chest, he guided him slowly down the hallway and into the tiny bathroom next to Steve's bedroom.

Steve tried to blame the alcohol—which was certainly affecting him a little more than usual—for his unsteady limbs and spinning vision. If he was being truly honest, it probably had a lot more to do with the kiss that had left him breathless and reeling.

Tony gave Steve some privacy in the bathroom, allowed him the time to brush his teeth and splash cold water on his face. The soldier caught his own eyes in the mirror and noticed as if for the first time the heavy bags that hung beneath them like smudges of coal. The faint spider-lines of old shrapnel scars chasing each other up his neck and chin, crawling up his once-smooth jawline. He'd almost learned to ignore them. They stood out to him like neon now.

Steve blanched at the sight.

Steve wasn't blind, and of course Tony wasn't either. The soldier knew for a fact that he looked nothing like he once had, all bright blue eyes and optimism. He was a shadow of himself, and neither of them could pretend otherwise. He started hollowly into his own face, and realized that he didn't recognize it anymore.

Steve felt his heart clench, and he looked away from his own reflection in disgust.

Tony was knocking on the door again, inviting himself inside before Steve had the time to sink any further into his own mind. The brunette once again took his place under Steve's arm and ushered him into the bedroom, taking the weight of making decisions off the blond's shoulders entirely. Steve was so unexpectedly relieved by the gesture that he felt his eyes burn.

Tony's arm, strong around his shoulders. Tony's smell, rich in his nostrils. Tony, under his skin, tugging at his heart. It was too familiar.

It hurt.

In a matter of moments, Steve was in bed. Legs up, shoes off, head spinning. He watched Tony buzz around him quietly through half-lidded eyes.

_Why are you doing all of this for me?_ He wanted to reach out and beg the billionaire for answers. Beg him to stay, beg him to leave, beg him to forget him entirely and leave him to drown in his own broken pieces. The cold mask of strength he'd tried so desperately to piece together was falling, crumbling into dust.

Maybe he was too drunk. Maybe he'd been stretched too far, too thin, too long. Or maybe he didn't really want to know the answer.

Tony was murmuring something unintelligible about the couch, setting Steve's single shoe by the door, turning off the lights.

Steve watched through heavy eyes as Tony paused at the doorway. In the golden half-light slipping through the blinds, he admired the curve of the brunette's broad shoulders under his shirt, the cut of a jawline Steve used to trace with his lips. He didn't know where the other man's suit jacket had vanished off to or when, but it didn't matter. With tousled hair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and tired eyes watching Steve with that look... Tony was perfection.

Tony was his everything, once. Maybe nothing had changed.

Like a statue the brunette hesitated there, frozen in a moment, and his eyes were so full.

_Ask him to stay,_ was all that Steve could coherently think, and he was instantly ashamed of himself. He had no claim. He had no right to drag pieces of heaven down into hell with him.

Swallowing hard, Steve closed his eyes and pressed his head back into the pillows.

If disappointment had a sound, it was there in the silence. Deafening.

He heard the low rumble of words that sounded suspiciously like _goodnight Steve_ and then the creak of a closing door. The sound was heavy.

The moment the other man was gone, Steve couldn't physically stop the helpless, angry sob that ripped it's way out of his throat. It was the kind of sound an animal might make, instinctual and deep and so completely out of his control.

The soldier slammed his lips together, determined not to make another sound as his chest heaved. The grief ripping through him was sharp and sudden and crippling, and it was entirely unexpected. How many nights had he spent screaming helplessly into a pillow? How many endless hours had he endured, gripping his leg above the knee until it cried out in a pain that was real and physical instead of phantom? How many nights curled into a ball in a cold shower, keening quietly and rocking until the noises in his head went silent?

He had drained his grief out in sleepless nights and paid for it in blood. He'd _paid_ goddammit. It was so unfair that it was back now, in full force, determined to see him laid low under the weight.

_Tony Tony Tony Tony please_

Steve curled his fingers into the sheets until his hands cramped, bit his lip until it bled. Smoke was in his lungs. He laid where he was and didn't make a goddamn sound.

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**So this was supposed to be a one-shot. Then again, so was Trainwreck Hearts (which by the way, has a fresh C19 update). Instead ToS will be approximately 3 parts, all of which are already finished or very close to finished already. With as much as I have done already, a weekly update should be a breeze. Famous last words, right?**

**As with everything I write, this story began as a form of therapy for me last year after suffering an injury on-duty that essentially changed my life. Not in a good way. Projecting those struggles and issues onto fictional characters might not be the healthiest form of coping, and I'm fully aware of that. But sometimes it's all I have, and it helps me sort through my own brain in the best way I know how. **

**If there is anyone else out there struggling, please don't hesitate to reach out. I will pretty much drop everything to talk to you and remind you that you are not alone. **

**As always, I'd love to hear from you.**


	2. Part Two

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**Part Two**

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Steve strained awake, every muscle in his body aching with tension, coiled up and ready for release.

"Tony—!" The name broke from his lips. It was the same name that had slipped unbidden from his mouth every night for four long years.

When he woke shuddering in the cool desert night, a rifle clutched tight in numb fingers, it was muttered syllables choked out like a prayer. When he dozed off on the long transport flights between tours, it was a whisper full of longing.

When he came awake in a dusty hospital in Mosul, covered in the blood of his fellow soldiers, that word had come tearing out of his scorched lungs without permission. He had screamed for his ex-lover until four medics wrestled him back down onto the cot, their fingers digging into shrapnel wounds and the shredded remains of his right leg.

It was not a word he said when he was awake. It was not a name he allowed his waking mind to dwell upon. It was a soul-deep ache that came upon him when he was sleeping and unguarded, when the deepest, realest parts of his heart yearned for a man he had once loved with every fiber of his being.

Hell, he still did.

A door creaked in the darkness, startling the soldier upright. His chest was heaving for the oxygen his sleeping mind had deprived himself of, his eyes wide in the semi-gloom. Smoke filled his mouth, filled his lungs, came pouring out of him like poison, hellbent on consuming everything it touched.

Tony stood in the doorway, looking startled and half-awake. His hair was tousled and his eyes tired.

Steve's throat clenched painfully, his sluggish brain awed and overwhelmed by the familiar sight. For a too-long moment, he was sure he was still dreaming. The smoke cleared away.

"Steve," Tony's voice was hoarse, and maybe it was the fact that he was half-awake himself but he sounded raw and real and concerned, the impassive facade finally slipping. "What's wrong?"

"Please," Steve choked out, broken by the moment and unable to tell what he needed or wanted or was even asking.

Tony didn't need anything more than that. In two long strides he was across the room at Steve's bedside, the mattress dipping under his weight. Strong arms pulled Steve up into a broad, warm chest.

Steve sobbed dryly with relief, sinking into arms he had dreamed of and yearned for through every miserable night for as long as he could remember. He threaded his arms under Tony's, grasping his shoulders with shaking fingers that were no longer as strong as they had once been, holding on for dear life. He pressed his face hard into the too-soft fabric of Tony's t-shirt and breathed it in. That scent of engine oil and expensive cologne caressed his senses, catapulting him straight back through the years to a time when he had fallen asleep in that smell every night.

He'd never dreamed those nights would end. Young and oh so naive, he'd taken it all for granted. They had been fireworks in the night sky... Burning and brilliant and invincible. Fleeting. Immortal.

Tony didn't say anything, and if the same painful memories were playing in his mind he gave no indication. Tony just held him, unquestioning. Tony was there. Tony was always there, whether he was a room away or two thousand miles or four agonizing years. He lived in Steve's head, blending into his edges, growing roots too deep to ever escape.

They were so different, Tony and Steve. The blonde so reserved and stand-offish, always too caught up in his own head and worried about the people around him. Tony was brash, bright, and tactile: always touching, always in his space. He didn't care what anyone thought and he looked after his own.

It shouldn't have worked between them as well as it did.

But Steve never would have had the guts to lean in the first time they kissed. He could walk into a warzone unflinching, but he damn sure wouldn't have been brave enough to pull Tony into the dark kitchen of the banquet hall for a private moment, at two in the morning after the awards ceremony had long ago wrapped up. Steve wasn't that brave.

Tony was.

And Tony didn't ask for permission when he shoved Steve against the cool metal walls of an industrial cooler, hidden by shelves and shadows. The billionaire had one hand behind his head, guarding his skull from hitting the hard surface, and the other wrapped in the soldier's tie.

Steve had never admitted it because it was cheesy as all hell, but that first kiss had truly changed his life. He'd never felt anything like it. Chemistry and tension and _need_ all building up into that moment, finally released... he'd never felt anything or anyone steal his breath and his soul right out of his body like Tony's lips did.

It was no surprise he'd fallen so hard. After tasting that moment, all others simply paled in comparison. He'd be chasing that high for as long as he lived.

They'd taken to each other in a way that danced the fine line between obsession and love—a word they didn't speak. They never needed to. When they were together, in those stolen moments sweet and infinite, they were the only planets in each other's universe. Nothing and no one else mattered. Caught up in each other's gravity, they exploded like stars and basked in the fall.

Looking back, it had to end somewhere. Tony had always joked that he'd put a ring on the soldier's finger if he'd let him. Steve tasted copper in his mouth and followed the call of war back to another continent every time.

Look where it had left him.

Broken. Shaking. Alone.

But for a heartbeat, he understood. He wasn't alone. Right here, right now. And maybe this was his last stolen touch, his last sacred moment.

Maybe it was supposed to be closure. The same closure he'd been so sure would never be granted to him. Maybe that's all it was.

Tony. Tony in engine grease and whiskey and the musk of cologne, seeping into his pores, possessing him. Tony's magnetic presence threading into his own. Blending them together in ways ecstatic and terrifying, because how could he ever pull away from something that had become a part of him?

Steve allowed himself to slip into him, to slip away, and for the first time since he could remember, he wasn't lost in his own pain. He didn't feel the crushing ache of his own worthlessness... he didn't feel anything but weightless. He was simply warm, and content, and safe for the first time in so long.

Exhausted beyond reason and high on Tony's atmosphere, the soldier let go of everything he'd been holding onto so tightly. He was asleep in moments, a steady heartbeat pounding under his cheek like a lullaby.

He fell asleep thinking that for the first time in a long time, he couldn't taste the smoke.

**.**

Morning dawned, harsh and bright and entirely too early for Steve's pounding head.

As the soldier painfully levered himself into a sitting position, the events of the previous night came pouring back into his consciousness.

_Tony_.

Tony was here. Or at least, he had been only hours before. It was all too clear that the soldier was completely alone now. Alone like he had always been.

Steve wasn't sure what to feel. He knew he hadn't imagined it; knew that it hadn't been a twisted figment of his own dark imagination fueled by alcohol and countless pills. He'd had enough of those waking dreams to know what they felt like. To know they were empty and numb and hollow.

Tellingly, his crutches were laid across the foot of his bed, and from across the room he could see that his bedroom door wasn't locked. A tall, clean glass of water replaced the room-temperature beer that had been sitting on the nightstand, and a small bottle of advil he knew he'd never purchased was next to it. The covers next to him were wrinkled and out of place.

Small details, maybe, but they were all signs the soldier hadn't been the last one in and out of the cramped room during the night. The whole thing was surreal, and Steve felt his face warming with embarrassment as he dragged a rough hand over his eyes.

Unless his memory was failing him... he had truly fucked up last night.

The rules were simple. Since he'd touched back down onto American soil, they had stood fast, and they were impossible to forget. Tony didn't get to be anywhere near him. Tony never had the chance to see him like this.

The soldier had spent so long building his defenses, spent so long desperate to be strong enough to resist the man that was like an opiate in his veins. And yet the truth remained the same... Tony was _it_ for him. Tony was everything he wanted, then and now. And the equally brutal truth was that he was everything Steve no longer deserved.

When push came to shove, Steve still hadn't been strong enough to resist him.

And now? Tony was gone.

Of course he wouldn't stay. Steve tasted bitterness in his throat as he shook his head at himself in disgust. He shouldn't be surprised. It was everything he'd expected, everything he'd feared. He was just grateful he'd been asleep for the part where Tony stood up and walked out of his life.

Steve had survived a lot. He still didn't know if he was strong enough for that one.

The soldier clutched at the jagged, bleeding edges of himself and pulled them together tight like torn flesh.

Sitting up far enough to reach his crutches was an awkward endeavor, but eventually Steve was able to land both rubber-capped pegs on the carpet and begin the arduous process of standing for the first time in hours.

The soldier hated how difficult such a simple task had become. More than that, he hated that he was so used to it.

Panting with exertion past spasming muscles and a screaming phantom pain that emanated from the place his right knee had once been, Steve stood. He wavered there for a moment, blinking at the angry sunbeams jutting through half-closed blinds. A faint knocking sound was manifesting between his temples, reminding him that he was dehydrated and probably several hours past due to take his morning medications.

Blinking at the door across the room, Steve steeled himself. The first hour of his day was always the most difficult, and it didn't seem to matter the circumstances.

Walking _hurt_.

The first swing of the crutches sent blood pumping back through stiff muscles, and Steve bit his lip hard at the sensation. By the time he reached the door, he felt a little short of breath and paused to catch his bearings. He found himself gripping his crutches hard, channeling pain and frustration through the unfeeling metal.

Jamming his left crutch under his arm, he freed up a hand to reach out and pop open the creaky doorknob.

Steve had his sights set on making it to the bathroom, but the smell of coffee that came wafting down the dark hallway stopped him in his tracks.

The soldier wavered, and he'd been so sure he could set his jaw and push through all of this, through the humiliation and self-loathing, but not _this_. Not the smell of coffee filling his dismal apartment, and not the unmistakable sound of sizzling burners and clanking utensils drifting faintly from the kitchen.

Tony was still here.

The soldier's stomach dropped and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

Breathing out shakily, the blond shouldered through the doorway on autopilot and ducked into the bathroom. He was hoping to make a quick getaway, hoping to buy himself a few minutes to recover from his new shock and form a battle plan, but he'd never been that lucky.

Due entirely to his own inattention, the butt of his right crutch slipped on the linoleum. Steve stumbled. He cursed his own clumsiness as his crutch clattered to the floor. The soldier barely managed to do an awkward half-step and catch himself on the bathroom sink, avoiding another fall by a hair.

"Dammit..." Steve hissed out between his teeth, his frustration mounting along with his anxiety.

These days even the most minor of interruptions was enough to upset his careful routine entirely, and this was anything but minor. Hell, Tony's reappearance was the equivalent of a wrecking ball smashing through his defenses like they were made of glass.

He couldn't shake the feeling of nauseating unease. Everything was wrong, displaced, out of order. Order was important. Order kept him sane.

"Steve?"

Tony's voice was close to his shoulder and steeped in poorly-concealed alarm, and Steve ducked his head in embarrassment. Of course the racket he'd just made had been more than enough to bring the other man running.

"Sorry," the soldier mumbled awkwardly, gripping the porcelain sink for balance and sanity. "I just—I dropped it—" he gestured dumbly to the floor where his fallen crutch lay wedged between the tub and the counter. He hated that he was too humiliated to even form a complete sentence.

"Oh, good. Don't worry about it," Tony was bending deftly, picking up the hated aluminum with an ease Steve hated and admired, "just glad you're okay. You definitely made me jump there, kid."

Steve felt his face burning. He wordlessly took the crutch back and leaned it against the wall by the light switch.

"Sorry," he repeated himself softly. He couldn't meet the other man's eyes.

Tony let out a breathy laugh, and Steve felt more than saw him back out of the bathroom into the hallway. Giving him space yet again, knowing like a sixth sense that the soldier desperately needed it, and knowing just as well that he'd never ask.

"Coffee just finished," the brunette told him easily, "come on out when you're ready."

And just like that, the billionaire's sure, easy footsteps were padding away. Steve hated that sound more than ever; the simple rhythm of two strong legs striding unimpeded.

The soldier groaned, screwing his eyes shut. He reached out blindly and closed the door, knowing it was still only a flimsy barrier between his crumbling defenses and the battle he'd have to fight sooner than later.

A few minutes. He just needed a few minutes.

Steve fumbled for the pill organizer which had been miraculously returned to its home by the faucet since the previous night. He couldn't remember the last time he'd needed them this badly. Steve knew that at least some of the added pain he was feeling was psychosomatic; it was borne of stress and the sharp claws of anxiety currently sunk into his lungs. That didn't make him any less eager to down the handful of medication and wash it down with sink water.

When his spinning head didn't immediately quiet, the soldier cursed under his breath and reached for the mirrored medicine cabinet hanging above the sink. He didn't have the strength to stop himself, not today. He fumbled through dusty orange bottles of Avinza and Hydrocodone, pills he'd long ago shunted aside in favor of self-medicating with alcohol. After all, liquor was something he could drink, whole or otherwise.

The pills... those were the band-aids doctors slapped on dying men. The pharmaceutical catch-all for a pain and misery that no-one wanted to admit was truly incurable. Steve wasn't ready to accept that yet.

So he floated here, toeing the dangerous line between alcohol abuse and opioid addiction and unable to find the spirit to care.

There was no longer a future for him, and therefore no reason to take care of himself. He took his day one hour at a time. He did whatever it took to temporarily dull the roar of pain in his leg and pain in his head and pain in his soul.

The soldier knew he was playing a dangerous game. He could feel himself slipping father and farther down that slope every day.

Steve tipped a nearly-empty bottle of Percocet onto the counter, hesitating before sliding most of the pills back into the bottle and stashing it back in the cupboard. He swallowed two tablets dry, punishing himself with the sour taste of powder on his tongue.

He wasn't sure when it had started.

He took the strong stuff in the mornings, powering through on the lowest possible dose to try to keep his wits about him. By evening he was hurting too badly to ignore, but his only option besides the meds was alcohol. Back in time, back _before_, he'd never been a heavy drinker. Somewhere during the last few years that had changed. He told himself it was better than the meds, the mind-numbing limbo where he spent his mornings floating helplessly, a broken soul anchored to a broken body by a thin string of willpower and morphine.

In spite of all that , he knew he was lying to himself the first time he consciously lied to his doctor... when he told him he was taking the recommended dosage at the recommended times and managing his pain adequately, and no, not drinking at all. It was a downhill slide from there.

And if the soldier overindulged once in a while after a particularly bad night or another clumsy fall that set off all the old injuries... well. What difference did it really make? There was no level further down than rock bottom, and the soldier was already there. Nothing left to shoot for and miss. Nobody left to disappoint. Nothing to leave behind when he finally faded into the darkness.

Stoically avoiding his own reflection, the soldier wiped a tired hand across tired eyes.

He told himself he needed the shower, but mostly he needed the time to compose himself. The roar of the water was cathartic. It grounded him. Bathing had once been an impossible challenge, but the parallel bars and wide plastic seat his government insurance had paid to have installed made the task far less daunting than it had once been.

Steve showered robotically, changing into the neatly-folded clothes he had long ago learned to keep in the bathroom cupboards instead of in his own closet. Anything to minimize footwork. The lukewarm water helped to clear his head, and by the time he finished combing his tousled hair and brushing his teeth he felt moderately more composed.

This was normal. This was routine. At least he still had that much.

Steve lowered himself to a seat on the edge of the toilet to pull a sock onto his left foot, and found that he felt almost ready to face the day again. His shattered nerves had calmed under the combination of warm water, breathing exercises and too-strong opioids.

And yet the soldier sat there, frozen, staring at the thinning bathroom rug still moist from the shower. Unmoving. He didn't even know why. He could feel a droplet of water running lazily down the side of his neck, but didn't have the energy to wipe it away.

Faint and far away, his shower dripped on slowly. He needed to call his landlord and get that fixed.

He couldn't have said with confidence how much time passed. He only knew that at some point his brain told him to move and he obeyed.

Steve levered himself to his feet, battling a sudden bout of lightheadedness at the change of position. It wasn't uncommon for his body to rebel after he dumped a particularly strong cocktail of chemicals down his throat, and today wasn't an exception. He powered through it, reaching through blurry vision for the unused hair gel on the shelf above the toilet. The feeling of slicking his hair back—a ritual he'd once performed daily with military precision—now felt unfamiliar and alien.

It made him feel more like himself, his old self. The immortal, the soldier. The Steve of _before._

He'd take any small victory at this point. Anything to give himself the illusion that he was still in control of any small part of his life.

When Steve finally opened the bathroom door, he wasn't quite ready to face his ex-lover, but not quite ready to hide forever. The only way out was through, he told himself. The stark contrast of the cool air in the hallway against his damp, too-warm skin made him shiver. He tried not to hesitate too long. Stalling wasn't going to do him any good fighting this particular battle.

Jamming his crutches securely under his arms, he pulled himself slowly down the short hallway into the open air: the kitchen on his left, living room on his right. His apartment had never felt so small.

Tony had his back to the soldier, humming quietly to himself as he flipped eggs over the stove in Steve's single crappy skillet. Plastic silverware, mismatched plates, and two steaming cups of coffee—one already close to empty—sat on the small bartop facing outwards in a haphazard attempt at a place setting.

Steve awkwardly cleaned abandoned clothing and paperwork off the two rickety stools pushed under the bar. He wasn't sure he'd ever actually used them before.

When he pulled one out to sit down, it creaked loudly. Steve winced.

Without breaking stride with the eggs, Tony half-turned and shot him a brilliant grin over his shoulder. It was so easy it was unnerving.

"Morning, sunshine," the billionaire greeted him.

The words made Steve's heart flip painfully in his chest. He'd heard them on so many other mornings, what felt like a lifetime ago. Taken them for granted. He sometimes dreamed them now, knowing how foolish it was but unable to help himself.

But today... Tony was really standing here. In his tiny kitchen, close enough to touch, preparing some kind of culinarily masterpiece with a handful of eggs and spices because there really wasn't anything he couldn't do well. Steve was hoping the light of day might make it easier to understand this surreal situation, but as it turned out he was dead wrong.

Completely speechless, Steve sat where he was expected to sit, wrapped his hands around the warm coffee cup in front of him, and floated half-aware in his own mind. Between the intoxicating smell of a fresh-cooked breakfast—an odor he couldn't recall ever smelling in his apartment before—and the lull of pain medication that was mercifully in full effect, he didn't think he really had the energy to do much else.

The soldier stared at Tony, drinking in every detail. It felt like taking a deep breath after being trapped underground: fresh and sweet and full of details he'd been too familiar with to notice before. The billionaire was still shirtless, looking for all the world like he had four years ago. Hair tousled, skin tan, face relaxed and eyes focused.

He was beautiful.

Four short, endlessly distant years ago, waking up half-dressed in each other's beds had been full of smiles and laughter and obscene implications. Now, Steve couldn't believe the brunette could even look at him, let alone touch him. The soldier was broken, incomplete, disgusting. He was nothing short of repulsive.

Surely Tony could see that.

Maybe it was pity, some need for charity or closure, that had pulled Tony back to him after so long. Maybe morbid curiosity. All the soldier knew was in that moment, he could briefly dream that it would last forever. For a sweet, infinite heartbeat he could lose himself in an illusion, and it was so achingly, beautifully comforting that he couldn't resist it.

Steve thought of the extravagant stainless-steel kitchen in Tony's loft in Soho. Of coming back from a long run in the early morning dew and crisp air. Of Guns N' Roses turned up too loud and blasting through the speakers while Tony made more French toast and bacon than either of them could possibly eat. He thought of getting distracted halfway through breakfast and letting Tony drag him back to bed.

He thought of being happy and forgetting what that felt like completely.

Back in the present, Steve watched the well-defined muscles roll in Tony's shoulders as he moved, and allowed himself to be mesmerized. He floated somewhere between memory and reality and watched the lines blur dangerously.

The moment didn't last. Tony was turning on the balls of his feet to tip the warped skillet over Steve's plate. He'd clearly made enough for them both, and as usual, served Steve an obvious lion's share. For what appeared to be over-easy eggs with a side of buttered toast, the food smelled like a feast.

Steve's stomach growled loudly, drawing a chuckle from the other man.

"That's your cue," Tony prodded.

He waited until Steve took a hesitant bite of his meal before he nodded in satisfaction. He buzzed away, making quick work of the dishes.

The eggs were delicious, and Steve all but inhaled them despite the generous serving size. He was still amazed by Tony's effortless skill at... well, everything, including cooking.

The warring halves of Steve's brain tugged at him mercilessly as he ate, demanding answers.

Tony shouldn't be here. Steve didn't deserve this, hadn't earned it. He'd done nothing to be worthy of forgiveness or mercy or kindness. Of eggs over-easy and coffee and toast.

On the other hand, this was the exact same man Steve had fallen for under blinding lights in an empty banquet hall. That was the same man here now, taking care of him. Choosing to stay in a situation where Steve certainly hadn't made him feel welcome. If he was honest with himself, nothing about that should surprise him.

Steve had changed, become almost unrecognizable to his own eyes. Tony hadn't.

The soldier wondered, not for the first time, how different things might have been.

_What if, what if. _

Finishing his busy work in the kitchen, Tony joined the soldier at the kitchen bar, their shoulders brushing in the cramped space. Steve's coffee was light with creamer and sweet with sugar. Tony's was black.

Steve couldn't help picking out those details in the silence between them as they ate. Tony had really remembered everything.

As if the coffee wasn't enough, two glasses of orange juice had materialized out of thin air onto the countertop, and Tony must have walked down to the grocers on the corner because Steve knew for a fact he'd never had any in his refrigerator.

The coffee vanished quickly, Tony's a little faster than Steve's. The brunette poured them each another mug, cleared away the plates, and loaded the seldom-used dishwasher within minutes. Maybe Steve's brain wasn't moving like it used to, or maybe he just wasn't used to getting anything done quickly or easily these days, but the brunette's effortless grace still impressed him.

When Tony finished, drying his hands with a faded dish towel he must have fished out of a forgotten drawer, he rounded the small kitchen island. His hand landed on Steve's arm, pulling him gently to stand. He shouldered the blond's weight and guided him to the couch.

Steve didn't bother resisting, didn't bother voicing the million questions and doubts spinning in his mind.

If it hadn't been abundantly clear before, he knew now for sure: he didn't have the strength to say no to Tony. He could add that to the long list of things he no longer had the strength for.

Tony fetched the soldier's crutches next and leaned them against the arm of the couch, within reaching distance. It was a silent peace offering, a way to make sure Steve knew he had an escape if he needed it.

Next Tony went back for the matching glasses of orange juice—Steve hadn't touched his, too preoccupied with the coffee made with aching familiarity—and that obviously hadn't escaped the other man's notice. Tony held the glass out in front of him and waited for Steve to take it. Only then did he join the soldier on the couch. They were close enough that Steve could feel his body heat, could lean into him and touch him if he'd only had the guts.

He didn't.

Steve stared down into his glass, thinking distantly that the orange was the brightest color in the room.

The soldier wondered again how Tony could read him so well... could provide everything he needed in an easy heartbeat without ever being asked. Past all the bullshit and hesitation and straight down to the truth of it all.

"Talk to me, kid," Tony's voice was soft in the stillness.

Steve realized he had been staring into space for an indeterminate amount of time. He dragged himself back to the moment with difficulty, his clouded mind dancing between the past and present; between what wasn't real and what was right in front of him, calling him _kid_.

The soldier swallowed hard and let his gaze slide across to meet Tony's. The brunette was sitting almost facing him on the couch, one leg tucked underneath him so he could turn his entire body and attention towards the soldier. He noted distantly that at some point Tony had pulled on a shirt, a plain white thing that still managed to look expensive.

It was hard for Steve to look at him, hard to make eye contact. He couldn't hold it for long.

"I'm not a kid anymore," slipped out of him for reasons he couldn't have explained. It definitely wasn't what he meant to say.

Tony grinned, and looked almost relieved. Maybe Steve's half-hearted attempt at humor was enough to fool him, enough to keep him from looking too deeply through the cracks.

Steve doubted he was that lucky.

"Yeah, why don't you put some hair on that chest and we can talk," Tony returned easily.

Tony didn't go on. Steve didn't smile.

The air between them was too loud.

"I missed you, Tony," Steve finally said as he looked at him, his voice hollow and tired, "but I was never going to call you."

Tony hid his hurt well, but it was there, flickering brief and deep across brown eyes. The brunette dipped his head in a nod, allowing a moment to pass before he spoke.

"Why?"

Steve swallowed, hating the way he felt. Hating that he barely felt anything, hating that he felt it all. Sadness. Emptiness. Weariness. The three emotions cycled themselves to exhaustion through his heart, just as they had every day since he set foot back on American soil.

Tony deserved honesty. He deserved an explanation.

The only problem was that Steve hadn't been truthful with himself or anyone else in so long, and he didn't even know how to start now. But what choice did he have, really? The only way out was through. One word at a time, pulling apart his pieces because Tony deserved that much from him.

"I couldn't," the soldier broke open in hitched breath and halted words, dropping his heavy head into his hand, hiding his face. He forced himself to go on. "I wasn't strong enough. I missed you like hell. I wanted you, of course I did. But not like this."

The sheer, brutal honesty of the words drained him. Steve's shoulders slumped. The admission was the tip of the iceberg, but still so much more than he'd ever meant to reveal.

"Steve," Tony sounded incredulous.

The soldier could almost feel him moving closer, radiating a warmth Steve had once craved like a drug. Like an addict, he still did.

But where there was longing there was fear, there was danger. The terrifying possibility that if Tony touched him the illusion would shatter into empty beer bottles and colored pills and sleepless, screaming nights.

"Don't—" Steve choked out in his panic, holding up a hand pleadingly, trying in vain to put some distance between them. He thought he could sound firm, sound strong, but he only heard desperation.

Tony defeated him easily, catching Steve's arm and slipping closer, into his space. Steve's hand came to rest on Tony's broad back, intent on pushing him away. He couldn't.

"Steve," Tony said urgently, a strange softness in his voice, "I didn't know—I had no idea..."

"That was the whole point," Steve laughed mirthlessly into Tony's shirt, eyes clenched shut. "I never wanted you to know."

"Always the martyr," Tony shook his head fondly, "when are you going to learn?" Warm lips pressed a kiss into Steve's hair, strong fingers threading into the blonde strands at the base of Steve's skull. "You know, I really thought you were done with me. Should've known you'd be holed up somewhere, too stubborn to ask for help... too righteous to admit what you want."

Steve had no response, mostly because Tony was right, just like always. The soldier slumped into Tony's embrace, weak against the onslaught of everything he wanted most.

He knew he should resist, that he should try harder. He was just having a hard time remembering exactly why.

Tony held him. Steve was sober enough this time to feel it. To truly remember that it was everything the soldier had needed and feared. He was almost dizzy with the relief of being back in Tony's arms. Back in the only place he'd ever felt like himself, like someone who belonged.

He knew he should push him away... should keep this whole, perfect person away from his jagged edges and poisonous heart. He couldn't bring himself to do it just yet.

The quiet between them stretched on for what felt like ages. Steve almost high on the feeling of Tony wrapped around him again, Tony's grip tight with long-denied emotion. The world could break between them like glass if they dared to breathe, and maybe they were both trying to keep that moment away as long as possible. Maybe they could both lie to themselves and deny the inevitable.

"When I heard what happened to you, I tried to fly into the warzone," Tony's voice rumbled through his chest, comforting and quiet. "I called in every favor I had trying to get into Mosul."

For the first time, Steve heard regret in Tony's voice. Guilt, pain, self-loathing. Emotions too easy for him to recognize because there were his own. The billionaire had managed to stay so strong up until this moment, and hearing the break in his voice was almost too much for Steve.

The soldier tightened his grip on Tony's arms, but didn't stop him. He felt Tony shake his head, press his face into the soldier's hair.

"They wouldn't let me in," the words came out broken, like an apology. "I threatened to fire the damn pilot; swore I'd have the job of every man that stood between me and you."

Steve was shocked into silence. His head was spinning.

"I'm so sorry, Steve. I'm sorry I wasn't there. God knows I tried to get to you, I was so damn _close_..." Steve felt the hitch in Tony's breath, could physically feel how much pain he was in. "I held over in Ankara for two weeks, hoping it would change—"

"It's not your fault Tony," Steve finally managed to choke out, overwhelmed by what he was hearing, what he'd never dreamed the other man had done for him, "It was a warzone. They couldn't even get my transport out for six months..."

"I would have done anything," Tony swore, "_anything_ to get to you. I swear to god Steve, I've never needed anything in my life like I needed to be there for you. I'm so sorry."

Steve gripped the other man's arm and squeezed, his throat constricted to the point where he didn't trust himself with words. He'd thought he had long ago reached the limit of the amount of guilt, self-loathing, and suffering he could bear... he'd been wrong.

At all times, above all else, the soldier tried to avoid the memories of the field hospital where he'd floated in limbo for months, swimming through the stifling misery and pain, losing pieces of his identity with every day that passed unmarked. A childish defense mechanism designed to keep him from the teetering edge of insanity, his brain shied away from that time; it shunted those thoughts away into the deepest recesses of forgotten memory.

He didn't want to think about how he'd screamed, how he'd sobbed like a child through treatments and surgeries and endless needles, catheters and blood-soaked bandages changed twice a day by nurses he didn't recognize. He didn't want to remember.

Steve had believed, for months on end as he lay there, that he was only waiting to die.

Knowing that Tony had waited too, waited for him a few hundred miles away through all of that... that he'd been so close. Been hurting. It was too much.

"I'm sorry Tony..." The soldier choked out at last, the words spilling out against his will. The same words he had repeated like a prayer to the dust-clouded air, gasped through broken lips while he felt his own blood pool slowly around him.

_I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_

The soldier thought of Tony in a Turkish hangar, frenzied and panicked and waiting for air clearance. He thought of reaching for Sergeant Barnes' bloody hand through the rubble, and realizing the gloved arm wasn't attached to a body anymore. He thought of being weak and alone and wishing, ashamed, that he was strong enough to die.

He thought about how smoke tasted like blood and failure and _everything is going to change now._

And just like that, the dam broke. Words he'd so ruthlessly quashed for so long erupted from him like a geyser, and he couldn't hold them back anymore than he could control his shaking hands.

"Shit…. You can't be here Tony... Tony you can't..." Steve hid his face, eyes screwed shut, words falling out of him without permission, "you need to get out of here before I hurt you. I'll hurt you. Can't ruin you, can't hurt you, can't touch... Don't you get it, this is too much to put on anybody... it's too much for _me—_"

With a jolt of panic, Steve realized he was dangerously close to hyperventilating. He struggled to calm the jagged breaths he was sucking in too fast, his chest refusing to expand.

There was a loud ringing in his ears, and he knew Tony was talking to him because he could feel the vibrations thrumming through the chest pressed against his cheek. He could _feel_ it, but for the life of him he couldn't make out a sound.

The world tilted around him in a rush of movement and two large hands were suddenly framing his face, holding him there, forcing him to look up.

Tony was kneeling in front of him now, eyes bright with concern and something else undefinable.

Slowly, too slowly, sound faded back.

"Steve, Steve," the brunette was repeating over and over like a mantra, his hands allowing no room for escape as he demanded eye contact.

The ringing slowly fell away, and Steve felt his heartbeat skip and stutter as his lungs slowly remembered how to breathe. It was so foolish that those eyes held such comfort for him, that even after all these years they could anchor him without fail.

"I'm right here kid," a fuzzy voice was echoing from far away. "Do you hear me? I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Thick black smoke billowed out of Steve's lungs and reached for Tony, ready to suck him in and consume him like it had every other part of his life. Terror rippled through the soldier's chest.

"Why don't you understand?" Steve gasped, "why..."

"_What_ don't I understand?" There was so much in that voice. Too much to name.

"I abandoned you," the words came out like a confession, harsh and rushed and rambling without direction. For someone who saw so much, Tony still didn't see what a monster Steve was and he had to show him, had to _make _him see it.

"I tried to pretend you never existed. I just wanted to keep you away from this, from _me_... I knew you were going to leave anyways, I couldn't... couldn't go through that—"

"Steve," Tony's voice was firm, a hard edge there the soldier had never heard before. "I'm going to say this once, and I'm going to make it crystal clear. I'm sorry I never made you understand this while we were together, but I thought what we had... I thought it was what you needed. I was a coward, alright? I was a goddamn coward."

If the billionaire hadn't already had Steve's full attention, he sure as hell would have had it now. Tony rarely cursed. And he _never_ admitted he was wrong.

"I fell so hard for you kid. I was in deep," the words came without warning, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "If it's that hard for you to see, I still am."

Dumbfounded, Steve stared into Tony's eyes, like he'd never seen him before. Maybe, he thought, he never really had.

The smoke that reached out for Tony flinched back, curling and billowing and fading slowly into white. The soldier didn't know what that meant.

"I thought you needed this. I thought you needed space, told myself that had to be it. But I was wrong, okay? I just didn't know _how _wrong."

Tony leaned in, touched his forehead to the soldier's in a shatteringly familiar gesture. It made Steve's chest clench for an entirely different reason.

"I am _not_. Going. Anywhere."

The too-tight grip Tony had on Steve's face relaxed slightly, and the brunette caressed the pale cheek under his fingers almost tenderly.

"Whatever you go through from here, whatever you've been through... I'm gonna be there for all of it. We don't get a lot of second chances, and I'm damn sure not wasting this one."

Steve knew his heart, skipping and stuttering like a seismograph, wouldn't be able to take much more of this. It was already on track to rip right out of his chest.

Why couldn't Tony _see _him?

"Some of us don't get second chances Tony," Steve felt the anger that bubbled up, all the ways he hated himself for what he'd lost rushing ruthlessly to the surface. "I'm not the same person—I'm not even a whole person anymore. Goddamnit _look_ at me!"

Steve punched his fist down into his right thigh hard, and it hurt exactly as badly as he'd hoped it would, sending sharp spikes of agony all the way up his spine.

Voicing his pain like this was not something he had been prepared for, and as humiliating as it was... it felt like lifting a weight off his chest. Giving voice to thoughts that had never seen the light of day, confessing his sins at Tony's altar. It was chance he'd never thought he'd have.

Not unexpectedly, Tony intercepted his fist before he could repeat the damaging gesture.

"I'm looking alright," Tony had the nerve to smile, "and I can't believe how much I missed those baby blues."

Steve laughed despite himself, and there was no humor there. He couldn't get a grip on how ruthlessly his heart was aching, how torn he felt. Balancing on an edge that was just waiting for the right push to crumble. There was something raw and selfish in his heart, pushing him to accept the hand being held out to him like a lifeline in a storm because he _needed it so badly_, urgently whispering that he might not survive without it. The fighter in him railed, the stubborn spirit that even wounded and dying just wanted so badly to latch onto anything it could find to keep going. To keep struggling.

And all the while, his mind screamed at him that it was wrong, that he couldn't inflict himself like poison on someone he loved so completely... because the possibility was terrifying. The possibility that instead of Tony saving him, the soldier ruined him instead. Sucked him down into hell with him, where the demons screamed in the smoke.

"I can't put you through this..." the soldier half-whispered, voice rough. He was desperate to make Tony understand before Steve's defenses caved completely. "I'm _not_ going to do this to you."

"I don't care," Tony shrugged almost dismissively, "I really don't."

"Tony—" the soldier tried again weakly.

"No." It was so final, so absolute. "Shut up Steve. You're clearly not in a position to be making these decisions, so just stop trying to change my mind. It's not gonna happen." The words were harsh but the voice was kind, the tone of a parent speaking firmly to an errant child.

Despite the command, Steve couldn't stop. He knew Tony didn't understand what he was saying, didn't comprehend how much of Steve's light had been permanently extinguished. He didn't understand that he was already talking to a ghost.

"I'm not a soldier anymore, Tony," Steve had to make him understand, "I'm not myself... I lost everything that _made _me..."

"Not true."

Steve clenched his jaw hard.

"You're working with kids now, Steve. You always wanted to do that. You still drink crappy beer and you still go out of your way not to hurt me, even if it means hurting yourself in the process."

Steve's breath hitched dangerously, but he couldn't interrupt.

"You're still 6'0 and a hair and I'm still taller than you, even if you don't want to admit it. You still use your left hand when you eat, you fall asleep on your back and wake up on your right side. You still lock the door and check it twice. Still can't handle the cold, and I'm talking 68 degree cold."

Steve let out a huff of surprised air, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Best of all?" Tony's gaze was unflinching, "you still can't lie to me."

And there it was, the real danger. Tony, kneeling in front of the broken soldier and looking up at him like he was the most precious thing in the world... saw through him like glass.

Tony saw what the soldier wanted, what he needed, and held it out on a silver platter for the taking. The dream, the fantasy, the sacred, unspoken _when I get back home._

Steve was 22 again, camping in the Baghdad rubble. His rifle was heavy across his chest and his back was scraping against a rough wall thick with powdered grey dust. The strap of his helmet swung against his chin, pulled low over his eyes as he tried to get some sleep but daydreamed instead of everything that waited for him on another continent.

Of breakfasts, too early in the morning while the city was still asleep but Tony wasn't. Cold sheets, soft against sweat-slick skin. Coffee on a windy balcony while the sun flickered between the skyscrapers like slivers of fire.

There had always been something comforting about the steadfast belief that whatever uncertainties awaited him out there in the dust, Tony was a sure thing. A home to come back to. A memory of what they'd had as much as a blind faith in memories yet to be made.

And maybe that was the real reason Steve had never called, never written, never found words to give a fitting eulogy to the future that had been ripped from him. As if it wasn't enough to lose pieces of himself, both physical and metaphorical, he'd lost _this._

It was the same reason he'd been in hiding, crawling home in shame on a returning troop transport, lacking all fanfare. Why his Purple Heart still sat in a cardboard box by the couch collecting dust. Why every gilded invitation from the Brooklyn Veteran's Award's Committee, the same dinner where he'd met Tony all those years ago, now found itself in the trash bin unopened.

His entire world had changed. And Steve simply didn't know if he had it in him to keep up.

"I know," the soldier admitted, and the words cost him. "I can't lie to you. But the truth Tony... it's ugly."

_I'm ugly. _

Past the physical scars, past the missing parts of himself, Steve felt it to his very core. Tainted. Incomplete. A man twisted and dissolved into a person he no longer recognized.

"Steve, look at me."

The soldier tried to resist. He really did. But if that hadn't worked for him years ago, when he was young and strong and ready to conquer the world... it sure as hell wouldn't now.

Reluctantly, Steve dragged his eyes up.

Tony smiled at him, big and brilliant. This time Steve could read with perfect clarity the pain, the joy, the need hiding behind it.

"The truth isn't ugly," Tony's voice, like his eyes, was soft and strong. "It's simple. You're not alone anymore kid, and you never will be."

Steve knew Tony. Inside and out. He knew that once the man made his mind up, he would move heaven and hell to make it happen. The soldier saw that same determination, that same blind, inspiring conviction in the billionaire's eyes now.

Dumbstruck for a beat too long, Steve searched the other man's face for a lie he knew he would never find.

"I'm sorry I let you push me away," Tony went on, shaking his head. "I really should have known better. I should have—"

Tony paused for breath, shaking his head, at a loss for words. Steve saw cracks in the armor, the reality of a man who'd been hurting just as much as he had been.

"I love you, kid." The billionaire finished his tirade, shrugging helplessly. "God help me, I never stopped."

For a long heartbeat, Steve's lungs forgot how to work.

_He's not supposed to say that,_ his brain told him. _We don't understand that word._

The silence must have gone on too long.

"So you know," Tony looked up at him expectantly with a teasing half-smile and eyes full of meaning, "now would be a pretty good time to kiss me. If you want."

_You're sober now,_ his brain churned out warnings in rapid-fire succession, desperate to delay the downward slide. _This is different, it means too much. It changes everything. _

"Or not,_" _Tony rambled on, "that works too—"

Something inside the soldier snapped.

Steve surged forward, his lips crashing into Tony's like a storm. He was a drowning man, and Tony was air. Steve wasn't strong enough to keep suffocating.

The billionaire didn't hesitate, his hands cradling Steve's face as he kissed him back with a vengeance. Gone were the gentle touches of the previous night. This was sheer need, raw emotion, undiluted desperation. Steve tasted hunger and relief and longing.

For the first time in years, something familiar stirred in the soldier's gut. A passion and warmth that he hadn't come close to feeling since the last time Tony's lips were on his, since that weight held him down, tethered here in reality. Since those hands wrapped around his arm, his wrist, his neck. Always touching. Always there to hold him down, next to Tony. Where he belonged.

Alarmingly sober and unflinchingly present, Steve felt it all and it was everything he needed. It was a first taste of water after a grueling ruck. It was his two strong feet landing on an American tarmac after an exhausting deployment, armed with that unwavering knowledge that Tony was only a short drive away from him after too long.

It was a fix he'd been craving shamelessly, and the heady rush that always followed it.

A sound that was needy and desperate came from his throat and it didn't stop Tony, thank god it didn't stop him. The burnette only pulled him closer. Fingers that didn't shake threaded through his hair, tugging him in, deeper. Surrendering was too easy.

By the time they parted, breathless, Tony was halfway laying on top of him, bracing himself against the back of the couch like he was somehow still trying not to hurt the soldier even when he wasn't thinking straight.

Panting for air, Steve curled his fingers tighter into Tony's sleeve, unwilling to let him go. Now that he was here, warm and solid and real, the idea of letting him slip away for even a moment was senselessly terrifying.

Seeming to read his mind in that uncanny way he had, Tony didn't move away. Instead his fingers moved in Steve's hair, his forehead tipping forward to rest against the blonde's. Steve could feel the heartbeat pounding against his own, taking a small satisfaction in the erratic rhythm he could feel beating through his shirt.

_Say it back, _some panicking part of Steve's brain demanded, a command that got lost somewhere before reaching his lips. _Tell him._

Lips parted, panting, Steve felt the words escape him. Whatever remained of his self-preservation choked at him like a hand around his throat.

Tony was staring at him in that familiar way, like he was having an entire conversation with him without saying a word. Steve forced himself not to look away, reading intensity and passion and awe and something so much deeper in the brown depths.

"Do you need me to get up," Tony whispered into the space between them, and he was still breathless.

Steve shook his head, maybe a little too vigorously. "Please don't," he choked out, and it came out carrying too much desperation and something close to fear. His steel grip on the fabric of Tony's shirt was making his fingers numb. He still didn't let go.

That was enough to draw the hint of a warm smile from the billionaire's lips, and he seemed all too happy to obey. He eased his weight down on the soldier's chest, still so careful, still so gentle. Steve loved that about him. In the same breath, he hated that he needed it.

Tony didn't give him the time to lose himself in his head again. Without warning his lips were back, devouring his mouth. Saying so much without words. Steve groaned into him, losing himself. If he'd had any doubts that Tony meant every word he said, the billionaire took them from him. From his lips, from his lungs, from his tired and aching heart. Tony kissed him like a man who wanted nothing more in the world than what was right in front of him.

How Tony could constantly mystify him and at the same time, could bare his soul, was something Steve would never understand.

He couldn't have said how long they laid there intertwined, stretched across that old couch like a pair of lovestruck teenagers. Tony smiling against Steve's lips, the soldier floating in bliss and the ache of relief. The voices in his head were quiet, drowned out by the skin-on-skin contact, the roar of blood in his ears.

His heartbeat calmed. His muscles relaxed. A heady euphoria he only experienced with the help of liquor and pills these days had found a home in his chest. It curled up and rested there like it wanted to stay.

Steve couldn't even remember what peace felt like.

He felt it again that night, in the shadowed half-light of his bedroom with Tony curled around him. The brunette's arm was draped across the soldier, holding him close even in sleep.

Steve lay half-awake and floating, his face buried in Tony's chest.

"I love you, Tony," he finally told him in the darkness. A whisper, a promise.

Tony smiled and pulled him in closer.


End file.
